There's nothing Truman
Gritt won't do to protect his family--Including spending years in jail for a
crime he didn't commit. When he's finally released, the life he knew is turned
upside down by his mother's overdose, and Truman steps in to raise the children
she's left behind. Truman's hard, he's secretive, and he's trying to save a
brother who's even more broken than he is. He's never needed help in his life,
and when beautiful Gemma Wright tries to step in, he's less than accepting. But
Gemma has a way of slithering into people's lives and eventually she pierces
through his ironclad heart. When Truman's dark past collides with his future,
his loyalties will be tested, and he'll be faced with his toughest decision
yet.

TRUMAN
GRITT LOCKED the door to Whiskey Automotive and stepped into the stormy September
night. Sheets of rain blurred his vision, instantly drenching his jeans and
T-shirt. A slow smile crept across his face as he tipped his chin up, soaking
in the shower of freedom. He made his
way around the dark building and climbed the wooden stairs to the deck outside
his apartment. He could have used the interior door, but after being behind
bars for six long years, Truman took advantage of the small pleasures he’d
missed out on, like determining his own schedule, deciding when to eat and
drink, and standing in the fucking rain if he wanted to. He leaned on the rough
wooden railing, ignoring the splinters of wood piercing his tattooed forearms,
squinted against the wetness, and scanned the cars in the junkyard they used
for parts—and he used to rid himself of frustrations. He rested his leather
boot on the metal box where he kept his painting supplies. Truman didn’t have
much—his old extended-cab truck, which his friend Bear Whiskey had held on to
for him while he was in prison, this apartment, and a solid job, both of which
were compliments of the Whiskey family. The only family he had anymore.

Emotions he didn’t want to deal with burned in his gut,
causing his chest to constrict. He turned to go inside, hoping to outrun
thoughts of his own fucked-up family, whom he’d tried—and failed—to save. His cell phone rang with his brother’s
ringtone, “A Beautiful Lie” by 30 Seconds to Mars.

“Fuck,” he muttered, debating letting the call go to
voicemail, but six months of silence from his brother was a long time. Rain
pelleted his back as he pressed his palm to the door to steady himself. The
ringing stopped, and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d trapped
inside. The phone rang again, and he froze.

He’d just freed himself from the dredges of hell that
he’d been thrown into in an effort to save
his brother. He didn’t need to get wrapped up in whatever mess the
drug-addicted fool had gotten himself into. The call went to voicemail, and
Truman eyed the metal box containing his painting supplies. Breathing like he’d
been in a fight, he wished he could paint the frustration out of his head. When
the phone rang for the third time in as many minutes, the third time since he
was released from prison six months ago, he reluctantly answered.

“Quincy.” He hated the way his brother’s name came out
sounding like the enemy. Quincy had been just a kid when Truman went to prison.
Heavy breathing filled the airwaves. The hairs on Truman’s forearms and neck
stood on end. He knew fear when he heard it. He could practically taste it as
he ground his teeth together.

“I need you,” his brother’s tortured voice implored.

Need me? Truman had hunted down his brother after he was released
from prison, and when he’d finally found him, Quincy was so high on crack he
was nearly incoherent—but it didn’t take much for fuck off to come through loud and clear.WhatQuincy needed was
rehab, but Truman knew from his tone that wasn’t the point of the call.

Before he could respond, his brother croaked out, “It’s
Mom. She’s really bad.”

Fuck. He hadn’t had a mother since she turned her back on him
more than six years ago, and he wasn’t about to throw away the stability he’d
finally found for the woman who’d sent him to prison and never looked back.

He scrubbed a hand down his rain-soaked face. “Take her
to the hospital.”

“No cops. No hospitals. Please, man.”

A painful, high-pitched wail sounded through the phone.

“What have you done?” Truman growled, the pit of his
stomach plummeting as memories of another dark night years earlier came rushing
in. He paced the deck as thunder rumbled overhead like a warning. “Where are
you?”

Quincy rattled off the address of a seedy area about
thirty minutes outside of Peaceful Harbor, and then the line went dead.

Truman’s thumb hovered over the cell phone screen. Three
little numbers—9-1-1— would extricate
him from whatever mess Quincy and their mother had gotten into. Images of his
mother spewing lies that would send him away and of Quincy, a frightened boy of
thirteen, looking devastated and childlike despite his near six-foot stature,
assailed him.

Push the buttons.

Push the fucking
buttons.

He remembered Quincy’s wide blue eyes screaming silent
apologies as Truman’s sentence was revealed. It was those pleading eyes he saw
now, fucked up or not, that had him trudging through the rain to his truck and
driving over the bridge, leaving Peaceful Harbor and his safe, stable world
behind.

Melissa Foster is a New York Times & USA
Today bestselling and award-winning author. She writes sexy and
heartwarming contemporary romance, new adult romance, and women's fiction with
emotionally compelling characters that stay with you long after you turn the
last page. Melissa's emotional journeys are lovingly erotic, perfect beach
reads, and always family oriented.